A Big Hand For The Little Lady
by Rye-bread
Summary: From the Heroine's Legacy arc.  Another tale of the Undead Kim Possible, and her quest for vengeance.
1. Chapter 1

A word for the Compleat Newcomer from the Former Compleat Kim Possible Ignoramus. Captainkodak 1 wrote a story a couple years ago. A Box Of CuddleBuddies, based on Edgar Allen Poe's A Cask Of Amontillado. Tara sealed up Kim Possible to prevent her from breaking Ron Stoppable's heart by breaking up with him.

Daccu65 followed it up with Family Legacy and Legacy Resolved. Kim became a vengeful Undead. After a twenty year imprisonment, she broke out and almost murdered Tara. With Yori's help, Tara eventually freed Kim from her curse and sent her to her well-deserved rest. I started A Heroine's Legacy, about the efforts of Tara and Ron's grandson to persuade Kim to turn from her hatred. Alice Shade contributed to the genre by writing Beyond The Grave, about Kim's efforts to dig herself out. And then I cooked up A Barrier That Restrains, inspired by Alice Shade's tale. Daccu65 got back in the fray with The Face Of Evil, a Kim Possible / Supernatural X-over.

Completely confused? Me, too. Another tale has been frothing in my head. Why do I gravitate toward these tales? It's a good question.

To both my usual readers and newcomers; this is a zillion miles outside the unusual parameters of the 'shippy Kim / Ron story. It is bizarre and gruesome. If you're easily upset, I urge you to pass it up. And that's as strong a story advisory as I've ever given.

This was inspired by daccu65's story and Alice Shade's story.

_**A BIG HAND FOR THE LTTLE LADY**_

Ron's first visit to talk with Kim Possible was Halloween of 2031, a year after her unsuccessful escape. She was actually shocked he had come. In point of fact, she was profoundly moved…but not enough to be penitent. She had already discovered the small hole at the bottom of the cistern. She racked her brain how to make use of it.

She made an experiment. Remembering how Ron had dismembered her with the Lotus Blade, and all her bodily parts had reformed, she actually snapped off the little finger of her left hand. It hurt dreadfully…but so did everything. She felt the hunger and thirst and exhaustion of every day of her captivity, contrary to her being clinically deceased. She was incapable of sleep. How had she slept before her escape, when she had supposed it was only a few days in the cistern? She had no idea.

But she was brimming with ideas now, and this was one of them. The detached finger wriggled in the palm of her left hand. She brought it near her left hand. With a sound like cracking knuckles and crinkling paper, the bone, muscles, and mummified skin reformed, and the finger was part of the hand.

It was very interesting. It was the kind of thing that would've fascinated Wade Load. Hell, it would've fascinated a young Ron Stoppable. He was always speculating on stupid bizarre stuff. "Hey, K.P.," he would say, "D'ya think zombies have working nervous systems? Like they can feel pain?"

"Ron…ew! Why would you even want to **know**?"

"Well…just in case…y'know…we have to fight one someday…on a mission."

Ron hated irony. And irony of ironies…it had come to pass. He had fought a zombie…herself. Well, not a zombie…she didn't know what she was. That was another thing that ceaselessly absorbed her interest; what **was** she? She wasn't that well informed about occult topics. And it was a shame she had no access to research, because she all the time in the world to study.

But Kim now had the answer to one question. Her undead nervous system still worked. Her hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and ghastly pain when Ron had cut her to pieces demonstrated that.

Pain…there was the emotional pain…the pain of supreme betrayal. Tara had accused her of eventual romantic unfaithfulness with Ron. She would ultimately break up with him, the fukking lying little bitch had accused. At least that was Tara's rationale for enclosing Kim in this eternal lockup.

Kim nearly sobbed aloud. Her last words to Ron after he had shut her back up was that she still loved him. He didn't hear them. The cistern lid was shut by that time. Not that it mattered. She would never love again. She would hate…and blaspheme…and revile…but she would never hope…or trust…or love again. That's what got her here.

But enough of that sentimental shit. Kim was Undead….maybe forever. May as well get her head in that game. If that were all it was, she might enlist Ron's help in fixing this sitch. But the shit-grinning butt-kissing oh-poor-defenseless-little-me Sweet Miss Innocent was still alive…her and her brood of bastards. And if Kim was going to have any sense of closure, they had to die. Not like she had died…screaming her lungs out in horror in the dark. Just a quick snap of the neck for the kids…or a smothering hand over the mouth.

But Tara…oh, Kim had plans for Tara. Tara would get the whole Pit-And-The-Pendulum-Premature-Burial-Night-On-Bald-Mountain-Dante's-Inferno-The-Exorcist-Night-Of-The-Living-Dead-Salem-Witch-Project treatment. That would be Kim's last mission. That was all she had left to live for…oh, right…so the irony. She wasn't really alive. But she was sure as hell in the game.

Point number one. She was dead. But she still walked and talked. Point number two. If she was cut up, the pieces would rejoin. Point number three. The autonomic nerves still seemed to work.

Mom the neurosurgeon would've definitely found that interesting…in a horridly fascinating sort of way.

For a moment, a sense of compassionate warmth intruded into Kim's thoughts.

_Mom…Mommy. Daddy. I miss you. God, I can't tell you how I miss you. Tweebs…Joss…you're all grown up now. Did you guys get married? Do you have kids? Do you tell them about me? Is the fam still doing missions? Uncle Slim. Nana. Are you still alive?_

But tender warmth was smothered by the remembrance of that awful glimpse of her own face…a shrunken skull of a face. With horrid staring eyes and gruesome protruding teeth. With sunken cheeks and stringy slimy hair. If they saw her, they would act like Ron acted when he saw her. He beat her like a person beats a rabid dog.

"_Ron! It's me! Kim! Don't you know me? Don't you recognize me?"_

"_You monster! Get away! Leave my family alone!"_

Yeah. That was how her Beloved reacted. That was how the rest of her family would react. Mom would faint. Dad and the Tweebs would run and dig up some high tech ray gun thingy to blast her with.

Kim shook the tender thoughts out of her head like a dog shakes water off itself. Tender thoughts would drive her insane. She cackled madly. What the hell…she was already insane. May as well embrace the reality. How was one supposed to cope with becoming a monstrous ghoul and keep their sanity? Between the surrealism and her decayed brain cells, she was lucky to hold a coherent thought in her head. No…the hatred gave her focus. Structure. Purpose. They would pay. All of them. With every last drop of precious bodily fluid. With every last scream. Just like she had. Beginning with Tara and her kids.

Kim now understood Monkey Fist. And Frugal Lucre. And DNAmy. And Warmonga. Payback was the sitch.

…But Kim digressed. Autonomic nerves…functional. What about motor coordination nerves? Gritting her teeth, this time she broke off her left index finger. God! That hurt like a bitch! Holding the finger between her right thumb and forefinger, she _willed_ it to bend…like one would crook a finger to beckon a favor from someone.

_The finger moved! The finger bent!_

Kim gagged. This was repulsive. Her little bits and pieces wiggling like worms. A part of her old human outlook still endured. Still…she was jubilant. _Well, shit me! This is spankin'! I've got mad mutant abilities! I'm a fukkin' supervillain!_

What to do with this marvelous attribute…that was the next item on the agenda.

_**to be continued**_

When will your Glacially Slow author update? Good question. Hey…it's me, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

It's wild and crazy. My gal Love Robin chose me as a favorite author soon after I posted chpt. 1. This is a mondo honor.

You've got to understand the dynamic between us to appreciate what I think is a delightful irony on several levels. I'm a repressed Born Again Christian heterosexualist. She's a relation and sex therapist, who, while devoted to her husband, is very open about different alternate expressions of sexuality and preference. I've often compared her to the Barbra Streisand character from the Meet The Family / Fokkers movies. Well…of course. She has her clientele to deal with.

The thing is…somehow this sort of respect arose between us. I think she's a fantastic writer. But she has this affinity for Evil Kim. You've got to see her stories to know what that means. We good-naturedly butt heads over things like Ki-Go and Ron Stoppable's appropriateness a consort for a Type A gal like Kim Possible.

Another irony. As my regular readers will know, I geek out on redemptive stories; stories of chivalrous content. I would much sooner be regaling my readers with chapters in the other stories of this arc, of Kim's redemption. But…you know what? Evil is easier to portray than virtue. This plot bunny dropped from the sky after just completing the Barrier That Restrains story and watching the old Untouchables TV show on DVD.

(An aside; that's some gritty drama for 1950's era television; some seamy stuff going on; my parents wouldn't allow me to watch it when I was a kid. If you guys think TV from those days was all about Captain Kangaroo and I Love Lucy…let me correct that impression.)

Can I keep up the winning game with depicting the Evil Kim? Or will I drop the ball? Let my readers judge.

_**A BIG HAND FOR THE LITTLE LADY**_

_**CHPT 2**_

Like a child with a new toy, Kim eagerly tried out her new ability.

Like breaking up sticks for firewood, she would seize all four fingers of one hand at once, and snap them off like breadsticks. She would lay them on the floor in front of her, and command them to wiggle like worms. She could feel them writhing and twisting, both with her attached hand, and through the nerve connection with the other hand stump. And when playtime was done, the orphan digits would reattach like kittens seeking to nurse from their mother.

Her experiments became ever more intricate; and daring. She removed the fingers of both hands; sometimes by biting off the remaining ones after enough digits had been removed that she could no longer grasp with opposed thumbs. She held competitions for the writhing body parts, racing them across the floor like inchworms.

It was an exercise in manual and mental dexterity, coordinating so many random body parts at once. It was both work and play, training and therapy, and confirmed that, for her, anything was still possible.

She broke off a hand at the wrist. She found she could command it to scuttle across the floor like a great disembodied spider.

She bit off all her fingers, then broke off both her hands at the wrists by bracing them against the concrete floor of the cistern with her knees. Kicking the pieces of herself to the four corners of the cistern, she embarked upon a most elaborate game; exploring the confines of her space, measuring its dimensions and determining the relative positions of each separate finger and hand stump, then merging all the parts into the two hands and guiding the hands back to the awaiting wrists. In the pitch blackness, she became as adept at sensing her surroundings as though she had sonar. The little wandering digits became her bizarrely beloved pets, and she could distinguish each one like a mother hen recognizing its chicks.

She broke off a hand and fingers, as usual, then dissected it with her teeth, biting out her knuckles and metacarpals like bones from a fried chicken wing. Then, with a fling of her hand, she scattered the little pieces over the floor of the cistern. And slowly, painstakingly, the faithful little fingers found every random fragment and reassembled them, like ants gathering food. Then the reassembled hand would crawl its way home to the welcoming wrist.

Kim cuddled and hugged her hands to her bosom as though they were her children, and she the proud parent. They were, after all, part of herself. She had borne them in as much pain as childbirth, and they were more dependable, loving, and faithful than her evil traitorous friends.

There was a goal to this complex pastime. Kim's hands would be the advance troop to gaining her freedom. She would send them up the pipe, to scout out the terrain. And when the whole of her was released bodily, she would verbally express her gratitude to Ron as she was killing with her bare hands.

Then came Ron's first visit with Kim.

Kim was shocked at hearing sounds besides her own voice cursing. Sounds were coming through the pipe from the cistern to the basement pump room. Familiar sounds. A door opening. Footsteps. The click of a light switch.

Light! Illumination! She squinted and recoiled. In the unceasing stygian blackness of the cistern, even a candle might appear as bright as the unshaded noonday sun. "What the **hell**?" she blurted.

"Hello, Kim. It's me…Ron. Ron Stoppable." Ron had tried to psych himself up for this meeting. It was impossible. He wasn't a Possible, after all. But he doubted that the most optimistic or intrepid child of colonial patriarch Zimm Possible would've been up to that challenge. He flinched at the sound of that ghoulish voice. He discovered the truth of the phrase 'flesh-crawling'. His flesh literally crawled with revulsion. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up like porcupine quills. The goose bumps swept across his body like a flash fire. He felt sick with horror.

Kim's hatred wavered for just an instant. The literal heart no longer beat. The literal blood no longer coursed through the veins. But the intangible metaphoric heart swelled like a glorious chorus. A warm affection swept over her. Words of endearment rushed to her lips…almost. The habitual sarcasm asserted itself. "Well, of **course **it's Ron Stoppable!" she snapped. "Who else **would** it be? Ron Rieger? Or Ronald LeDonald? The Cow And Chow mascot?"

Ron flinched again at the sarcasm. The derision in her voice was thick as viscous tar. But what else was to be expected?

"Yeah…good comeback." He tried to reciprocate with the flippancy. Maybe it was a positive sign. Maybe she was allowing him to ingratiate himself to her in this way.

Conversation languished for a bit until Kim took up the slack. "So, BF…what time of year is it outside?"

Her calling him 'BF' almost emboldened him. "It's…Halloween," he said tentatively.

"Already? Where does the time go? Gotta a morbid sense of humor, don'cha, BF?"

Ron chuckled weakly. He would play it cautiously…by ear.

"Can I be honest? You actually startled me," said Kim in an almost friendly confidential tone. "And for someone like you to do that to someone like me is most def a world class irony."

Ron took the clue. It seemed that informality was indicated. "The rest of the family is off to the Scare For Care Fundraiser at the medical center."

"So tell me…do you and Josh Mankey still dress up in that ratty unicorn costume?

He chuckled again. "Yeah. Actually, that's become a part of the fundraiser. Instead of candy, the people we visit contribute donations."

Their conversation was fairly civil up to that point. Ron's entreaty changed that abruptly.

Kim broached the question pointblank. "What brought you down here, BF? Certainly not to see if they turned down my sheets or left a mint on my pillow. 'Cause I'll tell ya straight up…the room service really blows. I think the broad in charge of housekeeping is in serious need of a reprimand."

K.P…" he began.

"**No!" **she bellowed with startling abruptness. "Don't you **call** me that! Ever again! You lost that privilege when you cut me up like a loaf of bread!"

Ron summoned all his nerve. "Kim…what do you need to find your peace?

"You **know **what I want!"

"I'll give you anything. I'll jump in there with you. I'll…I'll bring Tara with me."

Kim chuckled mockingly. "Interesting. Who would raise your fam?"

Ron faltered. "I don't know. Maybe my folks. Maybe I'd send them to Yamanouchi."

He fell to his knees and lifted his hands in supplication toward the unseen malevolent goddess. "But please…I'm beggin' you…spare our children." It was like a horrid delirium, him facing this surreal Wailing Wall.

There was a moment of ominous silence. Then a fusillade of fury erupted that nearly stopped Ron's heart.

"**AAAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!** You **prick**! You butt-licking **bastard**! How **dare** you? You can't even call them just **yours**? You had to include **her**?"

Ron staggered back against the wall of the little room with his hand pressed to his thumping heart. Kim's earsplitting shriek had all but deafened him. He would experience ringing in his ears for day…and would later ponder on whether he should've covered his ears instead of his chest…but the shock to his nerves was at least as detrimental as the damage to his eardrums.

"You want to know what I **want**?" ranted Kim. "I want to take from **her** what she took from **me**! Do you know what I was thinking about the day she stuck me in this damned coffin? **My** future husband! And **our** future family! I sit in here and I think of the kids…**our** kids…that'll never **be**! I'm going to turn **your **kids into the same thing! When I get done with them, it'll be like they were never **born**! I want her children…her beauty…her husband…her home…her life! **THAT'S **what I want!"

The Din of the Damned echoed around Ron's ears as he left the room. He bolted and padlocked the door even as Kim continued raving. He curled up in a little ball on the floor and wept bitterly. His closest relatives or friends would not have recognized the sorry distraught rag of a man at that moment. Eventually, he crawled painfully up the basement stairs and shuffled wearily to his bedroom.

Ron later pondered some more. He thought of younger cousin Sean.

Sean Stoppable had some 'issues', as the family would say. He liked to feed living rodents to his pet iguana Fluffy, just for morbid curiosity. The reptile would stand still as a statue, in typical reptilian immobility…and then with typical reptilian rapidity, would strike in the blink of an eye. Sean found it amusing. Other family members found it disturbing, both Fluffy eating small animals, and Sean's enjoyment of the sight. And Sean, in turn, found their reaction further amusing.

Ron, like the small rodent, had allowed himself to be drawn in by Kim's deceptive mildness…and then taken unawares when her anger burst forth. Did he make a mistake in referring to them as his and Tara's children, instead of only his? Or would Kim have reacted like she had, no matter what? It hardly mattered. She was implacable.

Back in the city, Mr. and Mrs. Dr. P., Liz and Josh Mankey, Monique Load, Bonnie Flagg, Sheila and Steve Barkin, and a host of other close friends would wonder why he had not appeared at the yearly Scare For Care Fundraiser at the Tri-City Medical Center.

Middle son Roy would be baffled at his father's absence from the traditional yearly festivities. Youngest daughter Kimmie would be saddened that Daddy hadn't joined in.

And oldest son Lon, tight-lipped and seething with resentment, would know…his father had been talking with…It.

For hours afterward, Kim cursed and railed at Ron with more than her usual fluency. Then she cursed and railed at herself. She belatedly realized that she had missed an incomparable opportunity to test her theory regarding her own nerve conductivity.

But when Ron, like the glutton for punishment he was, came back a second time, two years after her escape, it became obvious…he intended on doing this every Halloween.

Kim was delirious with unholy glee. Fate had granted her the coveted opportunity. It was time for her next macabre experiment.

With terrible resolve, she reached her fingers into her eye socket…and plucked out her eye.

_Oh, God! Oh, Heavens! Oh, my freaking sonuvabitch…!_

It hurt something awful. It was agony. She gripped her face with her one hand while she delicately held the eyeball with the other hand. For a brief deranged moment, she remembered some story about three women who shared a single eye. They passed it around like a piece of mutual costume jewelry and foretold the future. But when she reinserted the eyeball, she could feel it reattaching muscle and tendon, just like her other morbid experiments.

And so, until the next Halloween, Kim and her 'children', her brood, practiced their maneuvers with military precision. She enlarged the perimeter of her patrols, sending the fingers up the pipe to the pump room in the basement of the King-Stoppable house, and pushing the metacarpal bones back and forth, like ants and their burdens, ceaseless moving objects in the anthill.

She was harder on herself and her little 'soldiers' than she had ever been with her brothers' soccer team. She would bite and scratch and kick the finger or hand when it was too slow. But when the practice session was done, she would spread her arms and gather up the loose little digits like a mother bird spreading her wings over the hatchlings. She would coo and murmur lovingly at them.

She would apologize for her harsh treatment. It was a training regimen, after all. And then she would reform her hand to wholeness

Her babysitting experience asserted itself, and the memory of her stint as coach for her brothers' soccer team verified the lesson. The little ones needed encouragement. After all, she reasoned, it was important to love them for themselves as much as it was to love them as parts of her own body. She didn't want them to feel as though she undervalued them. Kids needed to feel that they were important.

Time and again, the bizarreness of the sitch would dawn on Kim. And her remonstrance to herself was always the same. Others had betrayed her. Loving others had led to this never-ending doom. She would never betray her own 'children'. And they would never betray her. The old saying "You Shall Love Your Neighbor As Yourself" took on new meaning. These were her neighbors…and a part of herself. They were the only thing she would ever love again. In a way, Tara had not won. Kim had her family after all.

The time was approaching for the Second Annual Ron Stoppable Visitation…or, was it the Third? It was actually getting hard to tell. Kim had no was to mark the passage of time other than by estimate.

There was no light in the cistern. There were no objects besides the garments she wore when

Tara had imprisoned her; the Capris and the crop top. They were now moldering and in tatters. She couldn't make marks on the wall, even to detect by touch. The damned Mystical Monkey Effect made the walls of the cistern mark-proof. She had thought of making little tears in the seams of her clothes…but how would that work? One little tear for each day? Week? Month? How long would they last? And, strange as it seemed, Kim wanted to preserve what little she had left. They were somehow a link to her old life. And…she laughed bitterly to herself…it wasn't like there was a Club Banana outlet kitty-corner to her in the cistern.

During Ron's second visit, Kim peered through the pipe that led from the cistern where she was to the pump room in the basement where he came to converse with her. She thought she could discern the opposite wall of the pump room

It looked to be a scant four feet across. A person probably couldn't even stretch out decently. Her cistern at ten feet by twenty feet was a mansion by comparison. But more important, the pump room might not escape-proof, as the cistern was. The door might have some kind of material over it; maybe soundproofing. Ron, Tara, and Lon knew about the unwilling permanent guest; but the daughter? Not likely. Tara had put a lot of effort into making sure Kim would never be found. It stood to reason that the fewer people who knew, the better.

Kim sometimes thought about it. What if word of her existence leaked out? It would cause skepticism, curiosity-seeking,…and maybe panic. Would Tara be arrested and legally tried? What jury would believe that an Undead Kim Possible was real?

Her family, who must have mourned her death, would, if they learned of her condition, without a doubt experience nightmarish emotional trauma. Doubtless the entire Stoppable family would 'disappear'. In the days of her missions saving the world, Kim had learned of many agencies and organizations that dedicated themselves to keeping secrets. Almost certainly they would try various ways and means to incarcerate her. Or destroy her. They were welcome to try. Some might even try to make her an ally. Maybe the supervillains. Kim would gladly cure them of those delusions. She was a solo act from now on. No more sidekicks, partners, or friends.

Such macabre meditations made for lighter moments during Kim's imprisonment.

But…it was time for her next experiment. She plucked her eye out again…and endured the agony again. _Oh, damn! Oh, shit! Oh, motherfuk! _

Kim was completely baffled. For Heaven's sake…she was _**dead**_! Why would it hurt so bad to take herself apart? Maybe it was something she could resolve through her martial art regimens…increasing dexterity and tactile perceptiveness while decreasing sensitivity to pain.

And she waited. Would the remorse-stricken jailer return?

Ron came again. It was more drivel. In all honesty, Kim was bored by it all. It was like listening to cousin Larry drone on and on and on about the Iotian Senator…or her dad drone on and on and on about Captain Constellation.

Ron apologized and harped on and on about the fact he was suffering, too…

…Yeah…let him switch places with her. Let him want to get out and settle some scores, and have to listen to someone be all noble and dramatic.

But what thrilled her…what made her quiver with excitement…what made her want Ron to hurry the hell up and begone so she could get on with business was…

…The light! Kim could see the light through the eye she had pulled out of her head! Spankin' badical sweet! It more than made up for all the pain.

After Ron left, Kim reinserted her eye. She was giddy. She was pumped. She was jazzed. She even allowed herself a backflip and splits…just like the old days. She messed it up badly. There was no visual reference in the total darkness. She was left sprawled on the floor…but that didn't matter.

She gave some momentary serious thought to her condition. It defied analysis. She could formulate no explanation for this phenomenon of nerve conduction between disjointed body parts…just as she had no explanation for her continued corporal existence.

But…whatthefuk? She had no explanation for the turn of events that spawned this whole sitch. She had been a good person. She had helped people and saved lives. And for God…or Fate…or Whatever or Whoever the hell was in control of the Universe to screw her over and pack her off to this god-awful everlasting unending end…

…And Former Boyfriend, who regretted the whole damned thing, and was just defending his kids, and behaved like a floormat (and lied like a rug, for all she knew) didn't even have the sense or the courtesy to leave the light on for her. Fukkin' inconsiderate. His captive wasn't even worth the extra pocket change per month on the light bill.

The lesson was plain. Nothing or No One cared. There was Nothing or No One in control. It was all random. Or if there were Someone, He / She / It had it in for her. The Man / Woman / Big Overindulged Kid Upstairs was toying with her…like a cat with a mouse…like some great Cosmic Sadist. Well…screw 'em back…Whoever It was.

The Big Kahuna In The Sky didn't give a rip about little Kimmie…and the sentiment was mutual.

_**to be continued**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**CHPT AFTERWARD**_

It was a subtle…or not so subtle…and gradual…or not so gradual…paradigm shift in how Kim Possible and Ron Stoppable, the two former lovers, saw each other, and overarching Fate. Arbitrary. Inscrutable. Predatory. Amoral. In a way, reptilian…like Sean Stoppable's pet.

…Which was not surprising. Since the Dawn of Thought, typical reaction to wickedness and seeming Cosmic Indifference has been a loss of faith in the goodness of the Universe.

Job lamented in the midst of his trials. "O that my grief were thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances together! For now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea: therefore my words are swallowed up. For the arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison drinketh up my spirit: the terrors of God do set themselves in array against me." _Job 6:2-4_

The Redeemer Himself reflected that "because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall grow cold." _Matthew 24:12_

The anonymous Epistle writer urged his readers. Cast not away therefore your confidence, which has a great compensation of reward. _Hebrews 10:35-36_

Kahlil Gibran has pronounced, The optimist sees the rose and not its thorns; the pessimist stares at the thorns, oblivious to the rose.

And both the former lovers wondered…even Kim, to a degree, in the remnant of her former outlook…which prospect was more chilling…to be an object of the anger of God and man…or to be an object of deliberate disdain and ignorance…totally forsaken.

_**to be continued**_


	4. Chapter 4

Let it not be said that Randy is entirely insensitive. I read the review by DevoteeofKimnRon and knew I had to comment. I wish she / he had left a forwarding link. I can only hope it will be read.

I commiserate with her / him over the sorrow of "allow"-ing my stories "to adulterate (her / his) collected memories of the K.P. tradition and its accompanying faithful fanlore."

That's not my intent. I don't want to poison anyone's happy recollections of a stellar show. Let me also say…if you're looking for vile, atrocious, foul content; it's out there. Hentai, deathfics, graphic portrayal of dismemberment. Both fan-art and fan-literature.

Your humble author's intent is to take the premise of the show…and in this case, the premise of some of the fan-stories…and extrapolate…shuffle around the elements of the story, and see what turns up. This is, after all, the philosophy behind fan-fiction. And sometimes, what someone likes is what someone else intensely dislikes.

There's a fellow KP fan at DeviantArt who commissioned a fanpic of Kim being captured and enslaved by a notorious supervillain from the Teen Titans show. It bothered me. I PM'ed the fan and the commissioned artist, asking if I could do a fic where she wins the battle instead of losing to said villain. They both said OK. That fic is currently a WIP. But…the fellow KP fan told me that my story would in no way change his outlook. In his head, his story was a done deal, as far as he was concerned. It was "fanon".

I'm okay with that. Live and let live. I can't impose my POV on him, and visa versa.

Now…about the issue of approval from Captainkodak and Daccu. I've been in contact with both several times. They keep saying, to this effect, feel free to use whatever I need to from their stories. And they're both class acts, in my book. I've had people ask me for the same thing. It's all good. Fanon is open-source, after all. I will always try to acknowledge who and what I draw my material from.

There. I've beaten that topic into the ground. A couple more things. Let me apologize once and again; I'm Glacially Slow. I've got a zillion fic's incomplete. And they get worked on, a little here, a little there. And I wouldn't stick Kim in a place literately I couldn't get her out of. There's a light at the end of this tunnel. At my DeviantArt account are a few Heroine Legacy tales about Kim Redeemed. But…how does that happen? Alas, for now, that's being withheld from the eyes of men.

I feel strongly about fair treatment of women, both in real life and fiction. How strong?

Google any one of the following famous pairings. Parsifal and Kundry. Pygmalion and Galatea. Cyrano de Bergerac and Roxanne. Don Quixote de La Mancha and Dulcinea del Toboso. Dante Alighieri and Beatrice Portinari. Petrarch and Laura. You'll get the idea.

_**A BIG HAND FOR THE LITTLE LADY**_

_**chpt 3**_

_**made by hand; don't try this at home**_

The most recent Ron Stoppable Annual Halloween Visit had just concluded. It would be a year until the next one.

That was Kim's new circadian cycle, cut off as she was from sun, moon, and season, from day and night, from clock and calendar. It was how she marked time. The coming year would be marked by even more intricate preparations.

She applied her legendary self-discipline. She found she was able to establish her own biorhythms; she was able to estimate the timing of the yearly visit, like animals migrating, or plans blossoming. So the irony, if it could be said that an Undead Zombie Mayhem Girl even _**had**_ biorhythms.

Kim endured ever more excruciating pain. She plucked both eyes out…and the muscles and tendons. This was done carefully, with the finesse of a medical examiner doing an autopsy.

Kim had attained her certification for surgical technology while still in high school. She had assisted her mother during delicate neurosurgical procedures. She knew how to dissect dermal and muscular tissue. She could recognize a nerve fiber from a blood vessel. The mother was an able teacher and the daughter a diligent pupil.

She now honed those skills…in the complete darkness…relying solely on her sense of touch. And she utilized to the utmost the uncanny faculty her body had for recombining itself and the connection her nervous system maintained with her body's disconnected parts.

Kim was, after all, a prodigy. As Ron Stoppable had noted once upon a time, she knew how to disarm a doomsday device. As Joe Ouelette-Mackenzie, the taciturn Canadian undercover agent had noted, she had the right stuff for working with sensitive devices, whether it was disassembling floor washers or vacrometers. Her lack of success with food processors and automobiles were flukes.

In effect, Kim performed a series of organ transplant, plastic surgery, and tissue reattachment procedures…in the darkness…in the cistern. Guided only by memory, uncanny ability, and hellish resolve. She incised the palm and back of one hand with the forefinger nail of her other hand. She inserted the eyeball and its muscles, and attached them to the metacarpal bones. She modified the muscles, tendons, and ligaments of her hand. Her hand now had an implanted eyeball, with a functioning eyelid on both the palm and back.

Her undead body's capacity for rebonding the severed parts simplified tissue connection. There was no need for suture. There were no nerve or blood supply connection issues. And there was no postop recovery. She found she was immediately able to move her fingers and eye.

The next challenge was mastering the muscular coordination of her new compound organ. It was like rubbing one's head and patting one's belly at the same time. Like a victim of traumatic physical injury or brain damage, she had to relearn the use of her muscles. She worked out an intensive physical therapy program. And then she applied herself rigorously to it, as conscientious as any patient. She never slept. She could labor ceaselessly.

Then she did the same with the other hand.

She achieved proficiency in short order. It was part of her ethos. If she had to, she could do anything. The eyes of her hands could rotate to "look" out the palm eyelid…or the back-of-the-hand eyelid. But could she "see" through them? There was only one acid test for that…Ron Stoppable's yearly Halloween Visit…when the lights were on.

And after the painstaking surgical alteration of her hands and eyes…after achieving proficiency and dexterity …she undid it all. She delicately reincised her palms and carefully pulled apart the attachment of tendons and muscles

_._

She swore to herself repeatedly. Or perhaps she spat out the invectives audibly. She could never tell.

The din of the unending sepulchral silence was deafening. The racket of her screamed utterances was indistinguishable from the tumult of her shrieking thoughts.

The unreal pain persisted…in spite of her being biologically dead…in spite of the whole eye-hand assemblage being a jerry-rigged patch job. It was as though the Malevolent Power that kept her animate tossed that in. Out of malicious cruelty. For good…or bad…measure.

_Ohmygodinheavenhelpme._

It was a supplication…involuntary…instinctual. It must have been some remnant of her former belief in God and goodness. It was unintended. She repudiated and renounced it, with the vehemence of a persecutor burning a heretic. She was dead to God and goodness, and He was dead to her.

Kim gathered her little bones up. She popped her eyeballs back into their empty sockets. There were pops and snaps like knuckles cracking, and squishy sounds like mud squelching. And like a slow-motion movie of a car blowing up she had once seen, running backwards, the effect repeated itself. Her body reformed.

And after the procedures were complete, she had to relearn how to move the muscles of her hands and eyes.

What was going in the world above? She hardly cared. The Stoppables were going to work, or school, or whatever. Did it matter? Not really. Did they think about her? Doubtless Lon, Tara, and Ron did. As far as Kim was concerned, the really important stuff would happen after she got out.

Did Tara's little daughter ever think about the friend of her daddy's she was named after? Maybe. Kim made herself a promise; she would make the little girl's death as quick and unexpected as she would make

Tara's death long and drawn-out. What Tara dreaded over on sleepless nights would be minor compared to what Kim had planned for _her_.

_**to be continued**_

A / N

I cite 2 sources for the hands with the eyes; The Invasion Of The Saucer Men and Pan's Labyrinth.

The Invasion Of The Saucer Men is an awful 1950's Grade B sci fi flick. The hands detach from the bodies of the Bug-Eyed Aliens and have eyes on the back, near the knuckles, that protrude like frog eyes.

Pan's Labyrinth is an awful film in the archaic sense of awesome. There's a loathsome horrifying corpselike creature that sits immobile at a banquet table loaded with rich victuals, with a pair of eyes on a plate before it.

Guillermo del Toro, the movie's director and producer, in the DVD commentary, refers to the creature as the Pale Man. It is a thin skeletal ogre that eats children; not a lovable Shrek-type ogre. The Pale Man has no real face; just a couple nostrils and a mouth with saggy jowls. If a visitor eats any of the food, it awakens, inserts the eyes into the palms of its hands, and stalks the visitor. Del Toro says he got that idea from seeing a statue St. Lucy, a martyr with her eyes plucked out and on a plate. He refers to the wounds in the creature's hands as 'stigmata'.


End file.
